


peacefall

by zigur



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Happy Ending, Historical, Lady Snowblood (1973) AU, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigur/pseuds/zigur
Summary: He’s usually good at it—extracting meaning from others’ words and actions, knowing them whether they want to be known or not. It’s how he made it so far in life, how he kept himself safe from harm. But Kuroo–Kuroo likes making himself a mystery to Kenma.(updates every other thursday)
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> lady snowblood (1973) au for kuroken that was meant to be a short thing but spiraled into something thats almost 20k now. you dont have to watch the movie to get this, but its really good you guys
> 
> HUGE thanks to kells @/spirallings without her id still be stuck and crying about it

“What do you think you’ll do when this is all over?”

An unexpected question, delivered with a drop of melancholy that Kenma doesn’t know how to place. He blinks, caught off-guard, but doesn’t allow his face to display any more surprise than that, knowing it will be enough. 

They’re sitting on the back of someone’s cart, being carried along an empty road that seems infinite from their little bubble of safety and comfort. Autumn is entering its final stage around them, leaving behind a trail of fallen leaves and a cold that’s moving from pleasant to bothersome. 

Next to him, Kuroo is dressed in rich blacks, making him stand out against a yellow-red background. There’s a delicate blush across his cheeks—a result of exposure to increasingly harsher winds—and his eyes seem heavy as they fix themselves onto a faraway point in the horizon. He seems pensive, almost lost, and it’s not a look Kenma quite knows how to interpret. 

Not for the first time, he wishes Kuroo wouldn’t make himself such a mystery to him. Kenma refuses to sigh, keeping his confusion and disappointment locked inside of him. 

“I don’t know,” He says, and it’s not a good answer, but it’s the only one he has. It’s hard to think with how warm Kuroo’s body feels next to his—too close and too far at once. “Dissolve into the wind, I suppose.” 

The words seem to resonate in the air around them and for a second, the urge to sink into Kuroo’s warmth and escape them becomes almost unbearable. He wants, needs, craves but does not act on it. 

It does not pass. 

“I see,” Kuroo says and it’s light enough to be carried by the wind the second it’s uttered, but Kenma's has always been faster than people think. He catches the words mid-air, takes them into his hands and searches for meaning. 

He’s usually good at it—extracting meaning from others’ words and actions, knowing them whether they want to be known or not. It’s how he made it so far in life, how he kept himself safe from harm. But Kuroo–

Kuroo likes making himself a mystery to Kenma. 

Whatever he keeps hidden, stays hidden, either in the shadow of his eyelashes against his cheeks, or tucked safely away under his tongue. Kenma cannot touch his secrets unless he reaches out for them. 

He’s never been good at reaching out. 

“What will you do?” He asks in lieu of losing himself to pointless wonderings. His voice is just as soft, equally unwilling to break the temporary sanctity they’ve built around this moment, around themselves. 

Kuroo closes his eyes and lets out a breath that makes his lips tremble. 

Kenma’s hands twitch with an urge he does not know how to sate. 

“Me?” Brown eyes turn to him, filled with a warmth Kenma never knew and a type of resignation he was all too familiar with. “I’ll turn into the wind, of course.”

* * *

The sound of blood dripping to the ground echoes like thunder in Kenma’s ears, loud above all else, the deafening tune of a song only he can hear. 

Below him, white snow is made crimson by the steady flow of blood coming from bodies torn open—an ephemeral mark of a permanent act—, but he pays it no mind. He’s long gotten used to it, and whatever demons hell could spare to haunt him do not frighten him any more. 

He moves, feeling the thrum of satisfaction pulse through his veins as he twists his wakizashi into the stomach of an evil man and stares into his pleading eyes without a drop of mercy, watching as life slowly drains out of him. From the back of his eyelids, he sees flashes of a life he never lived, miserable moments dealt by the hands of the same man whose blood coats his own, and the foreign anger makes him pull the sword back with violence. 

His face does not twitch as droplets of blood paint it, and not for the first time, Kenma finds himself grateful for the deep reds of his kimono. He hates to stand out so starkly against a white background, but he can appreciate the way blood blends with the fabric, hiding all evidence of a fight. 

He bends down, grabbing his wagasa from where he’d thrown it minutes earlier

An evil man still stands in front of him when he looks back, locked in place by fear and pain. Kenma wipes his sword on his clothes and tucks it back into the scabbard that is his umbrella, disguising it as the handle. 

It doesn’t take long for the body to finally hit the ground, a heavy thud breaking the silence around them and the sound of a dying sigh leaving broken lips following it, ringing like music in the air. 

There are other corpses scattered around him, lying face down in their own pools of blood—bodyguards, undeserving of the full weight of his vengeance, but complicit in the suffering of others nonetheless. Their deaths were too quick—Kenma’s unwillingness to make too much of an effort shining through his performance—and he makes sure to send soft prayers to the lives they might have ruined along with his apologies for stealing their chance of revenge. 

Above him, snow starts to fall once more. 

Kenma looks up, forgetting the carnage that surrounds him to make a face at the heavens, the thought of having to deal with even colder weather souring his mood. He knows the gods would never be on his side, but he wishes they would choose better ways to punish him. He wishes he had worn warmer clothes too, but he supposes the past cannot be changed. 

Only rectified. 

He places his wagasa over his shoulder, shielding himself from the snow as the steps over the bodies that litter the road before stopping by the broken ricksha they’d been riding. He stares at it for a while, wishing it would magically rise from the ground and carry him away so he didn’t have to make his journey through the oppressive cold he sees coming on the horizon. 

A minute passes. 

Nothing happens. 

Kenma starts his way back. 

* * *

In a metaphysical sense of the word, Kenma does not have a home. 

He has a house he goes back to on occasion, a place he spent more of his life, and a roof over his head whenever he’s in need of one and he’s aware that it’s more than some people have—it’s more than _most_ people have—, but it’s not really a home.

Like most things in his life, this is no one’s fault but his own. 

Yukie was always kind, taking him as her responsibility from the moment his mother perished in the filthy jail cell they shared, even though she was barely out of adolescence herself. She’s the only one who knew his mother’s story—his own story—and the one who relayed his mother’s last request. She was the one who made sure he had a way to fulfil it too, who introduced him to Nekomata and various others, who provided him with her own training, with food and shelter. 

He never truly lacked any affection. 

But it was never motherly. Yukie might have had a past just as stained as his, but there was a kinda life in store ahead of her. 

Nekomata too, was never unkind. Harsh and strict at times, but never impatient and never unwilling to spin wild tales for no reason other than to entertain him. He never allowed Kenma to forget his goal, either, always making sure he knew why he was brought into this world and what that made him. 

But just like Yukie, Nekomata was destined for a better future than him. 

Overall, however, one could say Kenma had an unusual, but not wholly unpleasant life. He can’t say he enjoyed the effort of training, but he never disliked gaining skills or sharpening new ones. He whispered whatever complaints he had with training to himself and never felt the need to do otherwise. 

In the end though, no matter how well he was raised, Kenma could not forget what he was and what kind of life he was fated to have. 

And vengeful spirits don’t have homes. 

* * *

Kozume Kenma meets Kuroo Tetsurou at the age of twenty-three. 

It’s in a walk through a town he’s never set foot in before, but that carries familiar names among its list of citizens. People who one helped Kenma, who knew what he was and who believed in allowing spirits to settle their scores.

He doesn’t meet Kuroo through them. 

Instead, Kuroo decides to take the odd approach of following him through the city. 

Or _trying_ to follow him through the city. 

Unfortunately for him, he’s not a very subtle man—not for a lack of subtlety itself, but more as a result of his appearance. Which is another of saying that he looks very suspicious even while doing nothing at all and that the people around him tend to react to it, regardless of how well-known or well-liked he is. 

It’s all very obvious from the moment Kenma leaves Miya Osamu’s restaurant. 

The feeling of eyes following his every move is impossible to ignore, a glaring warning sign for someone as sensitive to other people’s attention as he is. The low murmur of the crowd helps too, always pointing out his tail as he moves, though Kenma’s never quite lucky enough to catch a name. 

At first, he doesn’t plan to let it go for very long. 

Whoever is following him is bound to make a move, to give themselves away as they try to get the jump on him and he’s been in this business long enough to be able to identify when something of the kind is about to happen. Kenma has never had any problem turning the tide in his favour in the face of bigger, more threatening opponents. 

But the moment never comes. 

And the longer the faux-chase goes, the more he’s certain that whoever it is that is following him around has no intention of causing him any harm. 

Of course, it’s not a definitive belief—and Kenma makes sure to keep a hand over the hilt of his wakizashi just in case—, but he’s never been wrong before. There’s something about bad intentions that resonates in the air, especially when it’s purposeful, targeted. It always feels as if someone is pointing a weapon at him, like he can feel the cut of a sword before it even happens. 

He knows of some that would call this kind of intuition a sixth sense, that they would attribute it to a guiding spirit or the blessing of a god, and Kenma knows better than to doubt them. Miya Atsumu is certainly proof that the gods reward diligence to those they feel are deserving of it. 

But there’s no god or spirit that would ever grant Kenma a blessing. 

For him, this is only a matter of instinct. He’s been around evil for too long; chasing and being chased, stalking and being stalked, and it’s only natural that he would develop a better sense of when a threat is present. There’s no making it in his line of work without this, without being able to sense the presence of danger, knowing when someone wants to hurt you before they have a chance to act upon that desire. 

It’s about survival. 

And here, leading a stranger through the maze of a town he’s unfamiliar with, into isolated alleyways and deserted streets, he feels no cause for concern. There’s no thrum of violence in his blood, no alarm bells ringing in his mind. Nothing within him indicates that there is any reason to bother confronting the stranger other than to sate his own curiosity. 

So Kenma decides to do just that. 

He makes a little game out of it first, speeding up and slowing down at random intervals, making himself hard to keep up with. He ducks into busy streets and mixes in with the crowd before stopping by a street vendor or something of the kind, allowing himself to be spotted. 

A memory of Nekomata telling him he was a little too fond of playing with his prey pops into his mind, but he decides to ignore it for now. Even ghosts can’t help but find ways to amuse themselves, after all. 

Behind him, the stranger trips over a rock Kenma had easily avoided and mutters out a string of curses. It barely feels as if he’s trying to hide at this point, and Kenma gets the slight impression that he might’ve been working up the nerve to speak to him. 

Time to find out what it’s about then. 

Kenma speeds up, turning left into an empty alley. 

Five seconds later, the stranger turns as well, a determined look on his face. 

It’s almost comical, the way he jumps back, the precise mirror of a startled cat and Kenma finds himself having to fight the urge to smile. He doesn’t let himself think about that, choosing to twist the handle of his wagasa instead, allowing the umbrella to spin behind him—a small comfort for the verbal confrontation he knows it’s about to happen. 

When he looks at the stranger, he does not see a face he’s met before. Nothing about him feels familiar, and there is not even a slight resemblance to anyone else he might have met in the past and Kenma can’t help but feel some measure of comfort at this. There is nothing he hates more than having to deal with those he never bothered to keep in contact with or lovers, siblings and children seeking revenge. 

And he can understand why this man would be followed by whispers on the streets, too. He’s definitely someone Kenma would have kept in mind had their pasts ever crossed, at least. 

He’s tall, taller than Kenma by a good amount. His hair is dark and oddly styled, his eyes are sharp and heavy-lidded and his lips are parted as he tries to think of a way to start a conversation none of them expected to be having right now. His clothes are a darker red than Kenma’s, well-made but not as fine as his own, and the way he’s standing shows that if he has a weapon at all, he has no intention of pulling it out for now. 

Handsome, part of Kenma’s mind supplies, but he buries it as soon as it breaches the surface of his thoughts. 

“You were following me,” Kenma asks once it becomes clear that it would take some time for the man to find the words he’s looking for. “Why?”

A moment of silence and the man lifts a brow, as if he had not expected to be confronted in such a direct way. 

“Truthfully, that wasn’t my intention,” His voice is deep and steady, and Kenma gets the feeling that he’s used to commanding rooms with it. He pronounces every word in a way only someone with a formal education would know how, too. A scholar, then—someone of higher status would wear better clothes, Kenma thinks. “I saw you and wanted to make sure you were who I thought you were before saying anything. But you kept pulling ahead and disappearing from view, which I’m guessing now, was on purpose. That’s quite rude, you know.” 

“So is stalking a stranger through a town,” Kenma says, narrowing his eyes at him. There’s nothing on his face or voice that betrays a lie; the flush sitting high on his cheeks could easily come from embarrassment or the effort of feeling up, and the slight fidgeting of his long fingers could very well come from the discomfort of being confronted. 

It shouldn’t be enough. Kenma doesn’t make a habit of relying on assumptions like this. But still– 

“I believe you.” 

The words surprise both of them—Kenma had not meant to say them, and the man did not think he would be believed, it seems. 

“Who are you?” At this, the man stands a little taller, and most traces of discomfort or embarrassment disappear from his face. The mundane question seems to have given him a boost of confidence and Kenma cannot fathom why. 

“I’m Kuroo Tetsurou,” A smile, crooked and charming. He bows, lower than he should, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel fake or forced. This man respects him, Kenma realises, though he does not know why. “And it’s a pleasure to meet, Kozume Kenma.”

A sharp current of interest strikes Kenma. 

There aren’t many people in this world who know him by name, and he can count the ones who know his name in full in one hand while still having fingers to spare. That this man, a stranger in a strange town, would use it as if he’s known him his whole life is odd. 

And stranger yet is the fact that Kenma does not feel the discomfort that would normally follow a meeting such as this, where one party holds knowledge over the other. Instead, he feels secure in being known, comforted by his presence. 

He was wrong before, Kenma thinks. 

Kuroo Tetsurou does seem familiar to him, though not as a memory or a faraway image of someone else. It’s in the way he speaks, some of his mannerisms, the glint in his eyes. It’s all a shadow, a turbid mirror of someone else, someone Kenma _does_ know. 

“Nekomata sent you,” He says at the very moment the realisation dawns upon him. Kuroo’s smile sharpens and his eyes shine brighter, mirroring the interest Kenma can feel within himself. 

“He did tell me you were clever,” There’s something of a pleased expression on his face as he says it, as if he’s proud that Kenma met a challenge he hadn’t even known he’d been posed. “But yes, Nekomata sent me.”

Kuroo steps a little close, a little further into the alley, better hiding from the semi-busy street behind them. Kenma doesn’t move, finding himself staring too closely at a broad chest before lifting his head to meet Kuroo’s eyes once more. 

“And why–” He asks and realises he doesn’t mind craning his neck, for once. Kuroo has a handsome jaw, and from this distance, his eyes look like unrefined gold. “–would he do that?”

“Why else?” His canines are a little sharp when he smiles. Behind him, a black cat jumps from the roof and lands primly on its feet. “To help, of course.”

* * *

Bokuto Koutarou is a big man.

Even to Kenma, who makes his living out of confronting scary men, he’s something of an intimidating sight. He’s not the tallest person he’s ever met, but the way his muscles bulge even through the fabric of his loosely tied yukata is a sight to be witnessed.

What’s more intimidating about him, however, is the sheer strength of his gaze. 

Kenma understands, now, what others meant when they said they felt the pressure of his hatred on them sometimes. 

There’s no hatred in Bokuto’s yellow gaze, but it still feels oppressing, a physical weight pressing down on his shoulders. To someone like Kenma, who has such a deep dislike of being scrutinized, it feels like something is burrowing into his skin, like his soul is being weighed in the scales of someone else’s judgement. Nekomata’s gaze might have been sharp, but it never felt this heavy—it’s not something he can imagine others being able to withstand for long. 

Lucky for him, it does not last. 

Whatever Bokuto had been looking for, he seems to have found and the oppressive feeling vanishes from the room as quickly as it came, replaced by the full strength of Bokuto’s bright personality. It seems, Kenma thinks, that he’s been categorized as friend, not threat, and he thanks whatever god pitied him enough to grant him this. He doesn’t let the relief he feels break through his composure but allows himself to loosen his posture a little at the sight of a genuine smile. 

“A pleasure to meet the one responsible for the death of evil men!” Bokuto says, and bows with enough enthusiasm to startle Kenma. He wonders if Bokuto ever hit his head on the table they’re sitting when bowing. “Me and mine are forever in your debt, Kenma-san.”

“Just Kenma is fine,” He says, his voice nothing more than a whisper when compared to Bokuto’s. 

_Me and mine_ , he thinks and almost finds himself envying. 

The Fukurodani Syndicate is well-known within the district, a tight-knit group of people composed mostly of teenage runaways when they first started. Over time they grew larger and became something bigger, and they now gather under the banner of protecting the community they created for themselves and anyone in need who seeks their help. It’s quite impressive if Kenma’s being honest—Bokuto Koutarou can’t be more than a year or two older than he is, but here he stands. Within something he created, among people he values. 

Envieable indeed. 

The shōji door next to them opens before Bokuto can speak again, slow and careful. Forewarning the arrival of a friend and of someone used to being quiet. 

Akaashi Keiji enters the room with soft steps and a calm presence, eyes darting over Kenma with a gentler type of scrutiny that feels just as sharp on his skin. It’s less intense, more restrained and similar, in a way, to the looks Nekomata gives him when they’re playing shōgi. 

It does not go on for long before Akaashi turns his eyes to Bokuto with a barely-there, but clearly fond smile. 

“Akaashi!” The name is spoken with borderline reverence and for a second it looks as if Bokuto is about to get up and wrap his arms around his second-in-command, but he seems to contain the urge before acting upon it. Akaashi pays this no mind, manoeuvring around the room—a thin hand with long fingers gently tracing the line of Bokuto’s shoulders as he walks—, before sitting seiza to Bokuto’s right, mirroring the way Kenma sits across from him. 

“Bokuto-san,” He says as a way of greeting and Bokuto’s smile brightens nearly to the point of blindness. “Kenma-sama.” He bows, just as low as his partner had, but a great deal more graceful. “Thank you for what you have done for our community.”

“Just Kenma is fine,” He repeats and tries to keep his eyes somewhere on Akaashi’s shoulder. “I didn’t do it for you, really.”

“But you did it and we are grateful for it,” A good answer to what Kenma knows to have been a somewhat rude, if truthful, statement. Spoken with enough sincerity to threaten to fluster him, too. 

He had heard of Akaashi Keiji before, of course. He’s never left out of Fukurodani’s story, just as integral to its ascension as Bokuto had been. And he had heard descriptions of the two of them as well, but still, it feels a little odd seeing them side by side. They stand in such stark contrast to one another in so many ways—Bokuto’s white streaked hair stands, where Akaashi’s fluffy black hair falls, his eyes are big and wide, almost yellow in comparison to his partner’s sharp, metallic blue ones. Akaashi is not short by any measure, but Bokuto stands taller and wider than him, carrying thinner brows and an easier smile. 

Even their personalities seem opposed, one too loud and one too quiet. 

But still, they seem to fit together like a satisfying puzzle, something even a recently-arrived such as Kenma can see. There’s an easy comfort between the two, and they seem to do well-enough running this entire operation, so there’s no denying the efficiency of their combined strength. 

Like he said before. Enviable. 

Briefly, Kenma considers the rumours regarding whether or not the two of them were together, but the answer to that shines clear as day. 

“Whatever payment you demand, if it’s in our power to grant, we will be happy to give,” Akaashi says and Kenma can’t help but appreciate the straightforwardness of it. 

“Please tell us what we owe you!” Bokuto completes, bowing once again. 

“I don’t need money,” He answers, voice low. He fiddles with his wagasa, feeling for the texture of the oil-paper as a way to distract himself from the expectant eyes that stare at him. “I heard you had good information brokers in your midst.”

“Ah,” The dawning of understanding paints Akaashi’s voice. Kenma looks up at them. “Please. Tell us more.” 

* * *

The second tormentor falls in the very same way the first one did—with Kenma’s sword buried in his chest, a pathetic plea for mercy on his lips and fear swimming in his eyes. 

And just like the first time, flashes of a foreign life run through his mind. Images he knows do not belong to him, but that evoke feelings he’s tried so hard to keep at bay all through his life. In the double vision of a life he did not lead, the face of the man in front of him twists in cruel delight as he takes something Kenma never had and robs him of a life he would not have lived. 

In a way, Kenma realises, he owes his current existence to this man. 

So he makes him pay for it. 

He twists his wakizashi, trying not to revel in the strangled gasp of pain he gets in return, and pushes it down with every bit of strength he has, pushing the sharp blade through any resistance he finds in its way. 

It’s not a pretty sight, but it is one he’s been privy to many times before. 

Around him, the sounds of the ocean bury the last breath the man in front of him would ever take. 

He watches another life fade as he pulls his sword from where it’s lodged between ribs and gore, and allows the body to fall down the cliff. The waves are too violent for the impact to be heard, but he still gets to watch as the water turns red before shifting into a softer pink and at last, as it regains its original colour. 

Blue is soothing, he thinks, even the blue of a furious ocean. It’s the colour of calmness, of peace, of stability. 

Of purity. 

The thought nearly has him huffing out a laugh—how suiting it is, then, for Kenma to dye it red. He knows his red will fade, that it has already faded, but he also knows it will colour these waters again, over and over, though maybe not by his hands. 

An ephemeral presence in a world that rejects it, but that will never cease to create it. 

“Pointless,” He whispers, letting the wind carry it. Below him, no corpses resurface; the sea seems unwilling to release anything from its erratic clutches for now. 

Kenma closes his eyes and breathes in the ocean air. 

Strange that he’s lived his whole life on an island, but has never been to the beach before this. He can’t imagine enjoying it during the height of the summer, but now, with the sun barely peeking through a skyful of clouds and a cool breeze blowing through his hair—he can’t say he hates it. 

He opens his eyes to find a ray of sunlight shining through the thicket of clouds, turning a spot in the ocean into a brighter shade of blue and for some reason, finds himself fighting the urge to smile. It reminds him of something, though he’s not quite sure what, and the feeling it triggers within him feels a little too familiar. 

A realisation stands at the edge of his awareness. Kenma rejects it. 

No good has ever come from too much introspection. 

He leans down, picking up his closed wagasa from the floor where it’s being shuffled around by the wind. His sword is dirty but, as usual, his clothes are a perfect match for the blood dyeing the metal of his blame and he doesn’t think twice about using his kimono to wipe it clean. 

He sheathes the sword and with a last look at that bright spot of light in the ocean, he turns around. 

Kenma is not even a little bit surprised when he finds someone waiting for him at the beach. 

Lucky for him, the sound of the waves bury the beating of his heart, too. 

* * *

Kuroo Tetsurou asks nothing of him but his story. 

He’s a scholar, just as Kenma suspected though not like any he encountered in the past. There’s something buried underneath his fingernails that looks a little too familiar, something in the way he carries himself that echoes the same emptiness that has haunted Kenma from birth. It’s enticing. 

It makes him want to dig into him and find what’s under his skin, to dive into the depths of his mind and find what rots within its waters. 

He tries pushing those thoughts away, but somehow Kuroo seems to know them anyway. There’s a heavy weight to the brown of his eyes when Kenma looks at him, the weight of knowledge and expectation, of curiosity and appraisal. It’s the kind of gaze that would normally make him uncomfortable, would have him straightening his posture and either putting his guard up or looking away. 

He does neither of those things. 

There’s something about Kuroo Tetsurou that keeps posing challenges he keeps wanting to meet. He’s never felt the need to prove himself before and he still doesn’t—it’s not quite what’s happening here, it doesn’t feel right to word it like that. Kuroo just keeps having silent expectations that he finds himself wanting to meet. 

For some reason, Kuroo keeps looking and Kenma keeps wanting to be seen. 

Odd, for sure. He’s never wanted or felt comfortable with this level of attention coming from someone whose name did not echo inside his mind since birth, whose lives he was not born to destroy. But Kuroo Tetsurou, with his knowing eyes, poses him the challenge of allowing himself to be known and, for the first time in his life, Kenma doesn’t scorn the idea. 

“You’re like me,” He says as soon as the knowledge dawns upon him, certain and unquestionable. He leans forward, magnetized by the realisation and from his periphery he sees Kuroo’s long fingers pull his bowl of food toward the centre of the table, keeping him from colliding with it. 

Kenma doesn’t take his eyes off him, watches as he licks his lips and assesses the situation.

They’re kind of similar in that way from what he’s seen so far. Kuroo too, seems to constantly be on the lookout for something or anything, taking information from wherever he can by whatever means available. His eyes are always sharp, always trying to unearth facts from shallow graves and Kenma can’t help but think he would make a fine travelling companion—whatever escaped his notice, would not escape Kuroo’s. 

Kenma tries not to be confused by the sudden idea of having a travelling companion. 

“Am I like you in what way?” Kuroo’s lips twist into a teasing grin and Kenma does not sigh, holding onto his patience and composure. The smile widens. Kuroo leans back into his seat. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re baiting me,” He says it as he thinks it and can’t help but scrunch up his nose in annoyance, something that seems to amuse his companion greatly. “A story for a story.”

“Not a bait,” Kuroo takes his chopsticks as he speaks and starts to mindlessly dig through what little still remains of his food. He had eaten with an enthusiasm only those who had gone without present, uncaring of what anyone around him might have thought of it. Kenma wouldn’t have cared, but he does wonder whether it was done on purpose, as a way to lure him into a sense of comfort or if Kuroo genuinely does not care to maintain a façade he must have kept on for years in front of _him_. “An incentive.”

“There would have been no need for that—I would have given my story to you freely with only an explanation of why it’s needed,” He rests his elbows on the table but doesn’t lean in any further. 

“Then I will give you that, as well,” Kuroo closes his eyes, right hand to his chest. “I’m very kind, you see.”

Kenma scoffs and Kuroo’s smile grows as he opens his eyes. 

“So, what would you like to hear first?” 

“You,” Kenma answers and it must be a little too brash because Kuroo’s composure breaks at the words, if only for a second, and he splutters. “You told me Nekomata wanted us to travel together. I’m willing to allow that, so tell me about yourself.”

“Okay,” Kuroo pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’m not like you,” He starts, and the disappointment Kenma feels is a little sharper than he expected, but he was foolish to get his hopes up in the first place. His feelings must have broken through the carefully constructed neutrality of his expression, because Kuroo’s quick to continue: “Not exactly, at least.” 

“Nekomata didn’t tell me much about you, but he did tell me what you were. I fall short of that.” There’s something harder in the way his voice echoes between them, subtle but loud enough to be caught in the air. “I got in the way, once. As a child. I kept someone like you from fulfilling their destiny. I paid double for it,” His fingers tighten on his chopsticks before he releases his grip on them entirely along with a heavy exhale. “I was haunted by it, possessed. Eventually, I fulfilled it for them. But it still didn’t feel enough, so now I want to help others fulfil theirs, too.” 

Another pause as Kenma chews up the information and allows him to deal with whatever unpleasantness had resurfaced to trouble him. 

“That was not very detailed, you know,” He says, picking up his own chopsticks and bringing his bowl back within his reach. He hears a squeal of outrage from the other side of the table and huffs out a small laugh that catches him too off-guard to be hidden behind his hair. Across from him, a sharp exhale he does his best to ignore. “But I can accept it, I suppose.”

He picks up a thin slice of beef from his bowl and eats it before looking up to find Kuroo staring at him, disbelief written all over his face and a light blush on his cheeks. Kenmas’s about to look away when something stops him dead still. 

Kuroo starts laughing. 

By itself, this wouldn’t be enough to make him freeze the way he did except—it’s not a _nice_ laugh. If anything, it’s a very, very ugly laugh: strange, erratic-sounding and loud enough to startle Kenma into dropping his chopsticks and turn the few faces peppered around the restaurant their way. It’s stupid and the very opposite of subtle. 

He’s utterly bewitched by it. 

Never in his life had he seen someone laugh so openly before. Kuroo laughs with his whole body, shoulders hunched and shaking with mirth, eyes shut tight and smile splitting his face. It makes him look younger, makes his handsome face lose some of its superficial sketchiness, makes _him_ lose the intimidating aura with which he carries himself. 

Most of all, it makes _Kenma_ want to laugh, too. 

He can’t say it’s something he’s experienced until now. Other people’s joy never felt this contagious to him, this hypnotising. He doesn’t even know Kuroo beyond the couple of hours they’ve been around each other, doesn’t have any connections to him beyond the one Nekomata forged for them but. 

A near-stranger laughs and Kenma feels it in the pit of his stomach. 

He’s not quite sure what to do with that. 

“You’re a strange one, Kozume-san,” Kuroo says once his glee dies down, leaving behind only the twist of a smirk. The look on his face is the same he’d donned the first time they met and it makes Kenma snap out of whatever trance he’d been put into. He can’t help but wince at the formality of his speech—from others it felt uncomfortable, but from _him_ , it felt wrong. 

“Kenma,” His voice is steady and at level for once, and he watches as Kuroo’s eyes flash with confusion before understanding overtakes it. The same look as before replaces it: a sharp gleam of interest, the one he’s been eyeing Kenma with from the moment they met, if a little more pronounced. 

“Kenma.” He repeats and something about the way he says it stirs some unknown entity that had been slumbering within Kenma, something that hungers for his name to be spoken like that and by this same man again and again. He tries to ignore it. “You’re a strange one, Kenma.” 

“Says the one who’d been stalking me all around town,” At this, Kuroo seems to fluster, half-spoken words tumbling out of his mouth as he tries to explain himself once more. Kenma tries not to find too much amusement in it. “Tell me why you need my story, then.” 

“Demanding,” Kuroo tsks as soon as he regains his composure and doesn’t seem to mind the glare he receives for his words. His expression turns a little more solemn before he speaks again: “Nekomata said,” Another pause as he tries to find something in Kenma’s face. Around them, the murmurs of other patrons fill the silence and from afar, Miya Osamu’s voice can be heard in the kitchen. “He said if I wrote about it, if I published it, whoever you’re looking for would follow.”

Kenma stills. 

The words have a dual effect on him: 

First, his posture straightens from where he’d been slouching again, his entire body responding to the idea presented to him. A good idea, he thinks, one that certainly comes from Nekomata and is therefore very likely to work. He remembers the research he was able to do on his targets, using the most of his ability and the best of his connections; one of the people he’s looking for has power in their province, power that they wouldn’t hesitate to use if their life were to be threatened. 

Second, he flinches. Visibly. 

The idea of exposing himself in such a way, of sharing his life with innumerous strangers, of letting himself be _known_ even if not by name or face is—unpleasant, to say the least. 

He considers. 

In reality, he’s aware that there’s not much of a choice to be made here. He knows it to be a solid plan, something that would bear results and he knows he’d have a significantly greater amount of trouble were he to dismiss it and try his hand at his usual approach. People with power tend to be much harder to access, harder to get close to, harder to kill. 

The first of the tormentors was a man of power, though his was nowhere near as great as one of the others Kenma is chasing. He needed Bokuto Koutarou's help to find him and two weeks of preparation in order to deliver him from this world.

He has a feeling that whatever luck he had then won't come into play now.

Kenma takes a deep breath, refocusing on the world around him.

Before him, Kuroo Tetsurou watches intently.

His voice does not falter when he speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave me a comment !!! thank you for reading 
> 
> im ziguruns @ twitter if u wanna talk to me about krkn


	2. Chapter 2

Akaashi Keiji is an interesting man, to say the least.

It’s easy for others to dismiss him as the pretty shadow that follows Bokuto around, but Kenma was raised to know better; he, more than anyone, knows the feeling of being constantly underestimated and has long learned how to use that to his favour. Akaashi Keiji does the same, though his job description is a great deal less perilous than Kenma’s own. 

Nevertheless: Akaashi Keiji’s personality might not shine as bright as his counterpart’s, but it’s certainly not less fascinating for it. All it takes is keener look into how Fukurodani runs to see Akaashi’s touch and how he functions. 

Bokuto is a man of big, bright ideas, who’s able to sway crowds with words and a smile. Akaashi, on the other hand, is a man of details, the kind of person who knows how to take someone down using only his words. He’s the one who does most of the micromanaging around the compound, making sure Bokuto’s ambitious vision runs smoothly by taking care of the smaller things. 

And it’s Akaashi with whom Kenma ends up spending most of his time when he’s at Fukurodani. 

This does not change after meeting Kuroo Tetsurou. 

This is because, fortunately, he and Bokuto Koutarou make fast friends. Even Akaashi seems surprised by how well they get along from the get-go. 

Unfortunately, they also make a largely unbearable duo. 

They’re loud, annoying and, for the most part, wholly incomprehensible with how they communicate to the point where Kenma’s certain that the whole of their intelligence is far lesser than the sum of its parts. He’s sure that their combined stupidity is an active threat to their well-being. 

He’s also inexplicably glad to see Kuroo having fun. 

Bokuto seems to awaken something younger in him, to call to action a part of his personality untouched by the burden he carries on his shoulders. With him, Kuroo seems to smile easier, laugh louder—it’s nice to see. Kenma still doesn’t know much about his past and he doesn’t care to intrude, either. For some reason, he knows in his bones that someday Kuroo will share whatever it is he keeps buried within himself. 

Kenma doesn’t mind waiting. 

He’s content to watch from afar as he and Bokuto wreak harmless havoc in the compound. 

And so, he’s left with Akaashi Keiji. 

It’s a peculiar relationship, the one they have. Kenma doesn’t mind Akaashi—he’s quiet, he doesn’t ask stupid questions and whenever they deign to talk, he always proves himself smarter than anyone would’ve predicted. He’s pleasant company and the time they spend sitting around the house and drinking tea as they watch the other two go about their day is never uncomfortable. 

Akaashi, on the other hand. Well, he can’t tell exactly how Akaashi feels; he doesn’t seem to _dislike_ Kenma to any serious degree. But it’s also painfully clear to see that he only trusts him as far as he can throw him.

Kenma’s very much aware that if it were up to Akaashi, he’d never have set foot anywhere near Fukurodani again after that first time. It doesn’t bother him much: it’s the smart thing to do. Bokuto relies a little too much on his intuition when it comes to strangers and while he doesn’t seem to have been wrong often, if ever—the compound is still standing, after all—, it’s good to have someone like Akaashi vetting his choices as a precaution. 

Akaashi knows how dangerous Kenma is, can envision the extent of the damage he could cause were he ever to betray them. He knows Kenma often works for the highest bidder, that it's bad luck to have someone like him around, haunting a place of living. 

So he takes basic precautions and Kenma really can’t fault him for it. 

Akaashi has him watched whenever he takes to wandering around the compound and, if possible, doesn’t leave him alone unless he chooses to remain within the rooms he was given. 

He doesn’t mind. The mistrust doesn’t seem to affect the way he’s treated in itself so he can’t bring himself to care beyond a vague annoyance whenever he catches one of the guards watching him too closely. 

So while Bokuto shows Kuroo the aviaries, introduces him to each of the owls, goshawks and crows they keep, Kenma sits and has tea with Akaashi. Whether in his office, in the library or in the living room, it doesn’t matter. Akaashi will bring them tea, and they’ll sit together and drink. 

They don’t talk much. For someone who helps run a compound as large as this, there’s always work to be done, and Kenma can always keep himself entertained with the sheer amount of emakimono the library possesses. Sometimes they’ll play shōgi while occasionally throwing jabs at each other; Akaashi was deeply competitive, he found, and had a good mind for strategy. Playing against him always proved satisfying. 

Today, though, something is off. 

He and Kuroo have been on the compound for around some time now, time during which Akaashi has, little by little, grown less and less pleasant to be around. At first, he suspected it might’ve been his fault—he did bring a stranger into the compound, after all. But he sent word and was given clear permission, something Akaashi must have known or taken part in, so that can’t be it. 

Whatever the cause may be, it seems like it’s reached its peak. They’re not even fifteen minutes into tea time when the quietness Kenma cherishes so dearly is broken. 

“So,” Akaashi starts and his eyes are sharp, sharper than usual. It feels as if he’s trying to dissect Kenma and the sheer intensity of it makes him uneasy. He lowers his head, letting his long hair fall around his face. “About Kuroo-san.”

At the sound of Kuroo’s name, Kenma steals a glance at him. He seems impatient and there’s a look on his face that promises a troublesome afternoon. 

“What about him?” He asks, voice quiet but steady. They're having jasmine tea today and he holds back a sigh whenever the smell reaches him. He was never fond of floral teas, something he’s pretty sure Akaashi knows by now. 

So he’s the reason for the bad mood, after all. He wonders what he did. 

“Where did you find him?” At this, Kenma holds back a frown and looks up. Akaashi seems a little too satisfied, so he must not have done a very good job at keeping his composure intact.

“‘Find him’? He’s not a stray cat,” He protests and instantly regrets it when he sees the shadow of a smirk twisting Akaashi’s lips. This is going to be an annoying conversation, he realises, and finds himself deeply regretting rejecting Bokuto’s invitation to go meet the birds along with Kuroo. 

“Isn’t he? He certainly follows you around like one,” Kenma’s eyes narrow as the words echo around the room, and he lifts his head in full, tilting it to the left and letting his hair fall into his face as he stares at Akaashi with his full focus. He’s been told countless times that this is not a pleasant look to be on the receiving end of, that the strength of his focus can be a little too intimidating, but he doesn’t care. 

If he’s gonna get pulled into an annoying conversation like this, he’s gonna make Akaashi pay for it.

“Oh?” He asks, putting his tea down without as much of a glance. “That’s funny. That’s always how I saw you and Bokuto-san, too.”

At his words, Akaashi seems to bristle, eyes narrowing. It’s impressive, Kenma thinks. He’s killed much more powerful people with much less willpower than this. 

“I'd tread carefully when talking about Bokuto-san if I were you,” There’s an inflection to his voice that Kenma had never heard before, a type of cold anger that would frighten him had he not lived the life he did. “He’s the only reason you have a roof above your head and a path to follow.”

He’s right, of course. 

Kenma takes a deep breath. Akaashi does not trust him, it’s true—but he’s also never this outward and aggressive with his mistrust. He’s always been the pinnacle of good manners, for the most part, and they tend to get along pretty decently; Kenma would even tentatively call him a friend. For him to be acting like this, something must be wrong, and they’ll do nothing but ruin the good-natured relationship they usually have if they’re both on the offensive. 

He prepares to break out of his comfort zone. 

“I apologise,” He says, bowing low for a moment too long. Akaashi seems surprised when he straightens his back again. “I’m very thankful for all you and Bokuto-san have to for me.” Another deep breath. “Alas, I’m still reluctant to allow myself to be made into a punching bag for whatever frustrations you’re carrying.” He looks directly at Akaashi as he speaks, watching as his face flushes with embarrassment and irritation. Kenma never was very good at being careful with his words, he remembers, and holds back a sigh when he realises he might’ve made things worse. 

“My _frustrations_ are that you brought a perfect stranger into our home,” The answer’s delivered through teeth, sharp and brimming with barely concealed bitterness. Kenma frowns.

“I received explicit permission to do so from Bokuto-san. I assumed you were involved in the process,” It’s hard, keeping his composure when under direct attack like this. Dealing with people has never been his forté—he always found himself anxious around them, choosing to rely on his skills to get by as much as he could, either hiding from them entirely or intimidating his way out of situations. 

None of those options is available to him, now. He feels cornered in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time and wonders if his hands are still capable of shaking. 

“Bokuto-san feels indebted to you and grants you too much freedom,” True, probably. “You know how Fukurodani works. You should have contacted me, first.”

“Again, I apologise. I doubt I will ever find the need to bring anyone else into your home again, but for now, I can guarantee Kuroo will bring no harm to anyone here or disrupt your operation in any way.” He bows again, keeping his eyes on the teacup sitting on the table between them. He’s exhausted, suddenly; this entire conversation can’t have lasted more than five minutes, but it seems to have drained him of all his energy. 

He hears a sigh, heavy and full of the same tiredness he feels. 

“Tell me about him,” Akaashi says, sounding a little less intense. Kenma allows his shoulders to sag a little in relief. “What’s so great about him that you’re willing to bring him here?”

“The wording confuses him, makes something in his stomach turn with discomfort, but he ignores it. “He’s a scholar. Nekomata sent him my way.”

“Why would a scholar be travelling with you?” He sounds genuinely baffled as he asks, and Kenma feels more of the tension dissipate from his body at the continued lack of aggression in his voice. 

“He wants the story. Nekomata said publishing around some areas could help lure out the ones I’m looking for,” He pauses, letting Akaashi process the information while he tries to think of a way to explain the rest. “I haven’t decided whether to give it to him or not, so he’s with me until then.”

This seems to confuse Akaashi. 

“Do you not trust him?” 

“I do,” Kenma says and the speed of his answer surprises him and Akaashi both. It’s the truth, he realises with a start. He does trust Kuroo, more than he trusts anyone else outside of the people who raised him. 

He has no idea when or how this happened: they haven’t even been travelling together for very long. Kuroo wandered around town with him after his no-answer, a pleasant companion while he scourged the place for information regarding any of the people he’s chasing. Kenma got used to his company during that time, he supposes, and when Kuroo announced his desire to fulfil Nekomata’s request and travel with him—in case Kenma found an answer to his question in the winds of the oncoming spring, he said—, he didn’t think to question it or complain. 

At some point during their short time together, Kuroo became a fixed part of his life without him even realising. He carved himself into Kenma’s routines in such a seamless, easy way that it feels odd to remember that he was new. That until some time ago, they didn’t even know one another. 

He doesn’t remember feeling this way with anyone else; there are, in fact, very few people whose presence he can withstand for longer than a day or two. But he likes Kuroo’s company and, somehow, he’s learned to trust him, learned to trust his instinct’s reassurance that Kuroo wouldn’t ever harm him, would never hurt him. He can’t explain any of it, but it feels right, like this was always how life was meant to be. 

It’s not possible given what Kenma is, but well. It still feels right and it still feels good. 

“You trust him?” Akaashi asks, breaking him out of his reverie. Curiosity is written across his features, and he’s watching Kenma just as intently as he had been minutes earlier, though with much less hostility. The pang of unease he feels is enough to make him fidget with the sleeves of his kimono as he tries to think of the repercussions of his answer. 

“Yes. I do.” The statement comes easier than he thought it would, and he lets out a soft exhale. Akaashi stares at him for a second too long before nodding, seemingly lost in his own head. 

“Oh,” A moment of baffled silence. “I see.” He says, still looking pensive before taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea. “What is your trepidation in telling him your story, then? You told us, and I’m sure you trust me a whole less than you do Kuroo-san.”

“It’s not about trust. I don’t enjoy the idea of random people knowing. It’s barely my story, too,” He reaches for his tea before remembering its flavour and pulling his hand back. Across the table, he sees Akaashi let out an unapologetic huff of amusement. 

“I hate to break it to you, but you’re already known by random people. Do you think they wouldn’t talk about a long-haired youth in a red kimono and carrying a red wagasa killing a well-known yakuza oyabun? Plus, how do you think people hire your services if not by word of mouth?” Kenma scrunches up his nose in distaste. He knew he should have waited for a more discreet moment to attack, but he chose convenience over having to deal with a dozen of small-time guards. “And as far as I know, you’re going after yet another oyabun—people will know you. There’s no escaping this.”

He’s right, of course. Kenma knows he’s right, but still. “They know who I am, not what I am.” His voice is softer than it had been moments earlier, and he mentally berates himself. This is not the kind of vulnerability he’s usually willing to display, but it’s done now. 

No changing the past. 

“Ah,” Akaashi says before going silent. “But a good storyteller can spin any tale. I can’t say I understand your fears, but if you trust Kuroo-san, you should probably trust him to tell your story in a way that won’t hurt you, too.” 

Maybe Kenma does dislike Akaashi after all, he thinks. This tendency to always be right is annoying to deal with, at least. 

But it’s not the time to think about this. He’d been succeeding in keeping the idea out of his mind ever since Kuroo first asked the question—and it helps that he didn’t bring it up again—, leaving it for a fantastical future where he was willing to face and accept the consequences of having an answer. 

The fact that it was brought up to the surface of his thoughts again is annoying. This entire conversation has been nothing more than a headache. 

“Why were you so mad earlier?” He asks, deciding to change the subject for now. Akaashi seems to have calmed down, and Kenma doubts he’ll go into another fit of misplaced aggression again. Such loud behaviour is not really in his nature. “I understand that me bringing Kuroo might have stressed you out, but it’s been a while now and you only got less tolerable with time.” Akaashi’s eyebrow twitches, and he seems to take a deep breath. He’d been tense since the conversation started—posture too rigid, shoulders too straight—, but he manages to tense even further. 

He opens his mouth to answer, but whatever lie he was about to spin—and Kenma knew it would be a lie—is interrupted by the sound of the shōji door being abruptly opened. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto Koutarou enters the room with a big smile and Akaashi’s entire body seems to shed all the tension he’d been carrying almost immediately. His lips twitch into a smile, and something flickers inside Kenma’s mind. “You should have come with us to check on the birds! Kuroo doesn’t get along with the owls as well as you do.” And there, Kenma thinks. The shadow of a sneer when Bokuto mentions Kuroo by name. 

He tries not to laugh. 

“I’ll come with you next time,” A small smile this time which, for someone like Akaashi, can only mean overwhelming joy. He catches Kenma watching from the corner of his eye and tries to smooth out his expression, but it seems that proximity to Bokuto won’t allow for it.

“Kenma! You should have come with us too! Kuroo missed you,” Bokuto says off-handedly, attention still on Akaashi, and Kenma is left trying his hardest not to look confused or inexplicably flustered. He blinks at Bokuto and, from the corner of his eye, sees Akaashi smirk. 

“Did you run all this way just to spread lies about me?” The mellow and amused timbre of Kuroo’s voice echoes in the room, interrupting his thoughts and Kenma turns to the door, watching as he carefully steps into the room. He bows at Akaashi before turning to him. 

He looks good today, Kenma thinks distantly. He’s wearing the same deep maroon yukata he’d been wearing when they first met and there’s a light pink on his cheeks that suits him well. His lips give away a shadow of his delight and he brightens when their eyes meet, in a different way and with something other than mischief. 

Kuroo smiles and Kenma thinks about trust. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


There are no intermissions in life, but there are small spaces hidden between moments where everything turns quieter and the world feels gentler. 

Kenma shares a lot of those with Kuroo. 

It’s a comfortable kind of peace that he’s only ever experienced when in Kuroo’s presence, that he never imagined himself feeling in a life before they met. Something about him brings about a warmth that Kenma has never tasted in a life without him and that he doubts he’ll taste again once he leaves—an inevitability he’s yet to find the strength to confront. 

There’s an ease to being around Kuroo that scares him sometimes, the feeling of a connection reforged even though it was never created. It’s as if he’s been missing a piece of his soul and Kuroo’s fills the gap, the part the world deprived him of, that he was never meant to have. Kenma can’t say there have been many people he spent any considerable amount of time with, but even the selected few he allowed himself to get to know didn’t make him feel this way. 

He feels safe with Kuroo. 

For someone who rarely felt safe before, it’s a strange feeling. 

But with Kuroo, there are moments where he’s allowed to stop and let everything else fall to the background. He can focus on the way the tall grass around them sways with the wind, on the sounds of the lake where they’re soaking their feet, on the gentle warmth of the sun on his skin during a mid-spring afternoon. His ears will still listen for danger, his hand will still stay close to the hilt of his sword, and he’ll always be hyper-aware of his surroundings but during these moments none of those things feels as urgent or as worthy of his full attention. 

He can sit and enjoy the day, feel the warmth of another’s body next to his, listen to the soft sound of their breathing, feel the heat of their skin—close, too close, but never close enough—and ache to reach out. 

He won’t, of course he won’t. 

But he can ache. 

They talk during these moments, sometimes. Quiet questions in quiet voices delivered to one another by the wind. Kenma’s questions tend to be somewhat convoluted, leaning towards vagueness; he wants to hear Kuroo talk, wants to hear him go on absurd tangents about this and that. He enjoys the sound of his voice, the way it resonates inside his ribs and soothes the beat of his heart. 

And he enjoys knowing more about Kuroo too, something that it’s clearly reciprocated, though he suspects Kuroo’s interest might not run as deep as his own. 

His questions are always the opposite of Kenma’s: simple and specific, the kind that requires direct answers and that he always seems delighted to hear. It’s almost as if Kenma’s a book he longs to memorise, like every small sliver of knowledge he acquires is a gift, precious and rare. 

It almost feels like he’s trying to make up for some mythical lost time they never had, for a life that should have been spent together. Kenma doesn’t understand it, but he can’t seem to mind, either. 

It’s flattering, after all. The attention makes him feel lightheaded and warm, something he never expected to enjoy before and, for once in his life, he feels like a _person_ , someone that exists for the sake of existing instead of as a means to an end. 

In the spaces they share, Kenma can be something other than a perversion made to haunt the world. It’s a dangerous thing for him to feel, it’s addictive. It’s terrifying.

He never wants to give it up. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Okay,” Kenma says as they sit side by side on a bloodstained cliff. The wind blows strong around them, salt air messing up their hair and putting a harsh blush on their cheeks. 

He doesn’t know why Kuroo decided to join him or for how long he had been standing at the beach when Kenma turned to him. Did he watch the execution, he thinks, does he finally understand the type of person Kenma is? He itches to ask, but breaking the peaceful silence with such heavy topics feels wrong and in the end, he decides, it doesn’t matter. 

Kuroo joined him at the cliff anyway. 

Below them, the waves become more violent. Above them, the sky turns a darker grey. To his left, Kuroo turns, a content expression on his face. 

“Okay?” He asks and it’s dyed with light confusion. His eyes are curious when they look at Kenma, but full of something warm that makes the wind feel like a gentle breeze and a hurricane all at once. 

“Yeah. Okay,” He repeats and Kuroo’s eyes turn soft as he chuckles, light and low. Kenma has no compunction about displaying his own amusement either and smiles at the sight of Kuroo’s gentle laugh. The blush on his cheeks worsens, but his eyes stay soft, and Kenma wonders why he feels so at ease around this man. 

“Do I get to know what’s okay?” There’s a teasing cadence to his voice when he speaks that is nothing like the kind he shows with strangers from what Kenma has seen. 

“I’ll tell you the story.” 

“You will?” He can feel Kuroo’s surprise from where he’s sitting and his hand tightens where it’s holding his closed wagasa. However many lifetimes it feels like, the truth is he hasn’t known Kuroo for very long. However right and natural the trust between them feels, this is still more or less a gamble. 

Kenma’s always been good at gambling. 

“Yes,” He turns to Kuroo just as the wind softens a little. He smiles and doesn’t hear Kuroo’s gasp, doesn’t see the darkening flush on his cheeks. “I will.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if not much happens here..... truth be told this was supposed to be an one-shot so i didnt have clear chapter breaks planned.... the last chapter is gonna be longer though !!!
> 
> also please leave me comments.....
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ziguruns)


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